


A Tale of Kings

by Rei (RoarOfTheEarth)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But also the best dad, Childhood Friends, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationships, Father Son Pranks, Father-Son Relationship, I bet he was a little shit, I wanted to explore Young Regis growing up, Mors is the worst dad, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Regis is a little shit head, Slice of Life, TrollDad, he is the reason Mors has grey hair, mors is an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-01 08:40:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18332549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoarOfTheEarth/pseuds/Rei
Summary: Like it or not, he was definitely looking into the prospect of renaming his son.“Sir, I don’t think ‘Little Shit Lucis Caelum’ is a good choice.”“Well I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is also like, a 98% chance this fic is gonna transition into M/M.  
> You've been warned.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Roar’s not writing Yakuza fics? Somethings wrong.”  
> Yeah. FFXV fucking ruined me.
> 
> Little secret, I’ve always wanted to write a fic about the FFXV universe, but it’s so lore heavy and I’m terrified I’m going to fuck it up, I just avoided it for a while. I’m still terrified I will, but my answer to that fear is to slap an AU tag on it and shout “fuck it” to the heavens.

Where had he gone wrong? Was it because he stayed his hand too often? Was it because the boy’s mother wasn’t there? He admitted he let the prince get away with far too much too often, but that didn’t make him a bad father, did it?

That thought stuck in his head as he watched his son carefully slide his fork through the casserole that had been placed before them for dinner. He had told his young son it was only rice, chicken and cheese hoping he’d ignore the other ingredients. When the youth held up a small sliver of green broccoli accusingly, he sighed.

A moment later an even smaller speck of green.

“Perhaps those are spices, son.”

“It’s broccoli.” There was no room for argument. Even if it wasn’t broccoli, he doubted his son would be convinced of it otherwise. The boy had the oddest aversion to anything green or remotely healthy for him.

King Mors Lucis Caelum, 112th King of Lucis; thought about bashing his face against the thick mahogany of the dining room table, but refrained. “Regis, my son,” the King murmured, trying his best to be patient with the six year old. “Please, just eat.”

Regis, for all his six years looked at his father hauntingly. “What if it’s poison?”

Had he been like this as a child? Surly the boy got it from his mother’s side for the family. He couldn’t remember a time when he acted this dramatically over a vegetable. Had he scorned one of the Six? Was this his punishment?

“What if I eat it first?” he offered his son. Regis lit up like a newly replaced light bulb, holding out his fork covered in cheese and a small speck of broccoli for his father. Mors took the fork gingerly, putting on a stoic expression. “You will rule the kingdom in my sted, if something should happen to me.” He made sure to put gravity to his words. The way his son’s green eyes widened told him his change in tone had done the trick.

Like any self respecting father and king, Mors slid the fork into his mouth, cleaned it in one smooth sweep and returned the utensil to his son’s small hand. Then he waited, sitting there quietly while Regis stared at him, waiting.

In hindsight, Mors could look back on this moment now and realize it was likely the turning point in his relationship with his only child. But at the time it had been devastatingly funny. Even if Regis hadn’t spoken to him for a week afterwards.

With an eccentric sweep of his hand, Mors reached up and grabbed his throat. Gagged, coughed, rotated sideways out of his chair and fell dramatically to the floor.

Regis didn’t even check on him, the little shit. He ran screaming from the dining room.

Mors was picking himself up off the floor and straightening his cape when his Shield came into the dining room carrying a sobbing Regis while half of the Citadel staff crowded behind the man. His Shield sighed and turned the young prince towards Mors, showing him his father hearty and whole.

“It is alright, Prince Regis. Your father is fine,” he mumbled as the boy sniffled in his arms. He shot his king a glare over Regis’ mop of dark hair. “I’m sure he has an explanation for you.”

“I do,” Mors confirmed, his voice solemn. “I’m a ghost.”

Mors wasn’t sure if a King being grounded by his Shield was a ‘thing’, but he was shuffled off to his room without the rest of his dinner while Amicitia tried to console the squalling prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly didn't realize how short this was until I started to post it. Chapters after this will be longer. This was just the start of an idea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I juggled some ages around to make this work a little better. For the story's benefit, Regis and Clarus are only a few months apart, so are the same age unless otherwise specified. (Clarus is older by four months.) We'll meet the older friend later.
> 
> Clarus' dad's name was also made up on the spot, thanks to a random shampoo brand floating around my bathroom.

Mors was well and truly certain he was raising a great kid, no matter how much he disliked his vegetables and only wanted to eat mac and cheese for dinner. Regis was a good kid, and while he loved to torment the poor boy from time to time, it stood to reason he would still become concerned when he noticed his usually lively and out-spoken seven-year-old was being far more quiet than usual.

“Things have been a bit… hectic, recently,” his Shield murmured as he leaned against the doorway of the King’s study. Mors had retreated there after doing some of his ‘Kingly Duties’ such as reminding people they had to play nice with each other and settling petty squabbles between the Crown City citizens. “He gets like that around his mother’s birthday, too.”

Mors knew. It was his fault his son seemed to dread that day once a year. Mors spent it at her grave, wishing he’d been able to save his wife so she could watch their son grow. Their son saw it as a day where his father would retreat from the world and hide in shadow.

It was also the first time Regis had ever caught sight of his father crying.

“It’s different this time, Argan,” Mors mumbled. He saw his Shield straighten a bit where he was standing at the door. Something in his voice giving away his worry. “I'm beginning to think perhaps he’s not making friends like he would have me believe.”

Argan tilted his head a bit, green eyes staring intently at his king. “What do you mean?”

Mors shrugged but then frowned. “He had a bruise on his arm. When I asked him about it, he said one of the older kids grabbed him on the playground, that it was an accident and then shut down the whole conversation.” He rubbed his hand over his chin, letting the stubble there scratch his palm. “I’m loathe to believe him though… You could make out individual fingerprints on his arm. Whoever grabbed him, grabbed him hard.”

“Bullying?”

“Perhaps,” Mors sighed and leaned back in his chair. It was no secret at the school who Regis was. It was impossible to hide the boy’s status from the world. He’d thought maybe homeschooling him would be better, but Regis wanted to be ‘normal’ as he put it.

Which meant public schools and kids that didn’t all that much like the fact that he was the Crown Prince of Lucis.

Argan hummed thoughtfully, staring up at the ornate molding around the ceiling of the study. “Hm.. What if I introduce him to Clarus? The boy will eventually be his Shield anyway, he just hasn’t started his training yet.”

Mors opposed the idea immediately. “No. If Regis knows who the boy is and knows he’s to be his Shield at some point, he’ll reject it. As silly as it sounds, he’d likely cling to the friendship if it happened more naturally.”

His Shield sighed and slumped into a chair in front of his desk. “What if we set it up in the background? Have them bump into each other?”

The King arched a dark eyebrow. “Are we trying to set them up on a date?” he joked, earning a light chuckle. “I suppose we could finagle something… Maybe have them run into one another on the way to school. I could hold Regis up long enough that he has to walk in around the time you drop Clarus off.”

Argan chuckled. “And knowing my boy, he’ll pick up on the young Prince’s distress rather quickly.” He rolled his eyes. “He has a sixth sense I swear. He knows when his mother is angry with me and clings to her skirts.”

“Smart kid, knows who’s going to win,” Mors teased.

“He gets it honest,” Argan admitted. “He’s friends with an older kid there too. I think he’s two years older than the two of them.”

That wouldn’t hurt either, Mors decided. If Regis could make a few quick friends that would stand up with him without royal intervention and shoving what was to be his Shield, and guard around him; maybe the boy wouldn't feel like the relationships were falsely gained.

“Alright,” Mors sighed. “Shall we hammer out the details?”

* * *

Nothing that King Mors Lucis Caelum CXII did was ever simple. He didn’t do anything by half measures either. So when Argan suggested changing the settings on the young Prince’s clock so the boy woke later, Mors took it a step further.

He set ever clock in the Citadel nearly an hour behind.

There was a large chance he would regret it later, especially when Argan arrived and found out he was “early” for work. Controlled Chaos he’d called it.

Regis didn’t suspect a damn thing, though he did panic a bit when he looked at his phone and realized he was going to be late. Normally he walked to school, but today he didn’t have the time for such luxury.

“Dad, I’m gonna be late for school!” The cry hit the ceiling of Mors’ study like a siren. “Can you drive me? Please? I can’t be late! I’ve _never_ been late!”

The sheer panic the boy was producing made Mors feel marginally guilty. Only marginally.

“Slow down son,” Mors said as he stood from his chair and walked around to place a reassuring hand on top of his son’s thick mop of dark hair. “I’ll get you there in two shakes of a Garula’s tail.”

That was the first and last day Mors drove Regis to school.

Argan told him later that Clarus had excitedly recanted his version of meeting the young Prince, who had apparently been standing out at the front gates, hyperventilating as the driver of a black car speed off into the distance. Clarus had offered him a paper sack to breathe into and the two had quickly become the best of friends.


	3. Chapter 3

His son, Mors decided; was a little shit. The Prince had discovered the one behind the ‘clock prank’ and had extracted retribution with the help of none other than his own Shield. Apparently Clarus had been talking to Regis about everything, and after hearing his father fussing to his wife about the King’s ‘controlled chaos’, had come clean to the Prince about what had truthfully happened.

The pair’s bond had become stronger over the simple fact that their fathers and conspired against them.

Mors was sitting in his study, waiting patiently. He’d called his Shield, who seemed to be taking his _sweet ass_ time getting there. There wasn’t any _rush_ or anything. It wasn’t like he had other things to deal with today.

He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, trying to decide if he should handle this matter discretely or full-on out the little shit for his behaviour.

With narrowed eyes, he started ruffling through the forms that were locked away in one of his drawers, finding what he needed and quietly started to fill it out. He chuckled softly to himself a few times as he scribbled across the blank spaces on the paper, signing on a dotted line at the bottom.

He’d needed something to keep him busy since his Shield didn’t appear in his office until a solid thirty minutes later.

“Your Majesty?” Argan murmured as he entered, arching an eyebrow then the King motioned for him to hurry and enter. He shut the door behind him and took a seat. “They told me it was urgent, but I had to take care of a few angry citizens on the way here since you were supposed to be in the Throne Room well over an hour ago.” There was a curious lilt to Argan’s voice. He wasn’t accusing him of anything, but he hadn’t posed it as a question either.

Mors ignored it for the moment and held out the paper to Argan, crossing his arms and leaning back into the high-backed office chair.

“I…” Argan trailed off, staring at the paper then back up at his King. Amusement set a lively twinkle in his eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Dead,” Mors said flatly. “I’m going to call the school and have them address the issue immediately. In the morning, by roll call, it will be done.”

Argan was holding back laughter, the steady twitch that kept assaulting his cheek a result of suppressing a smile. “Sir, I don’t think ‘Little Shit Lucis Caelum’ is a good choice.”

“Well I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas,” Mors shot back.

“Didn’t we just address the fact he was being bullied at school?” Argan murmured, letting the smile flood his face now, his laughter a low roll under his words. “Doing this will undo everything those two have done over the past month.”

Mors snorted and reached into another drawer on his desk, handing his Shield another piece of paper. In the center was a handprint made in black ink, under it, in a rather childish handwriting were the words “We No”. Argan quirked a brow at his King.

“Rather ominous, if not for the misspelling.”

“Turn it over,” Mors instructed, arms crossed over his chest.

Doing as instructed, Argan choked back another chuckle. “‘Clarus told me.’ Seems my son is a little rat,” the man laughed. “So I guess he heard me complaining.” When Mors nodded, Argan had to laugh harder. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. No harm done though? The boys are still friends it seems. They are trying to make plans to stay over this weekend.”

“No harm…” Mors trailed off then, without another word, stood up and turned his back to his Shield.

Argan Amicitia was a kind man. He prided himself in his even temper and collected composure when confronted by the day-to-day dealings with being the Shield of the King. He liked to think he could handle anything thrown his way. He’d been trained for it since he was barely a teenager after all. But when faced with his King’s rear protruding through the ripped out backside of his trousers, well…

“You can breathe whenever you get ready,” Mors murmured as he sat back down, crossing his arms over his chest once more. “Or don’t. Choke there for all I care.”

To his credit, Argan tried, but the laughter and the tears were too much and he found himself doubled over, trying his utmost not to pass out from lack of oxygen. It was a struggle, like fighting against the undertow of a strong current of a river determined to drown you. He was rather certain Mors wanted to help, if the way he kept curling his fingers ever so slightly indicated anything.

Once his Shield had settled and breathed easy once more, Mors launched into a tale that could only happen to a father that played too many pranks on his own child. “The little shit put glue in my chair,” Mors huffed, eyeing another chair that Argan had failed to notice. The other half of the King’s pants were plastered to the seat. “Nearly took my skin off,” he grumbled. “I couldn’t leave to go to the Throne Room like this, and I don’t have a change of clothes near at hand….”

“So you called me,” Argan concluded then started laughing again.

Mors released a long suffering sigh. “I’m going to start storing things in the Armiger,” he grumbled. It wasn’t a bad idea. “Next time I’ll be prepared.”

“This is going to continue?” Argan wasn’t sure if he could handle this much laughter. If another prank went askew and he found his King missing the rear of his pants, he was pretty sure it would put him in an early grave. “Perhaps you should talk it out with Regis instead of continuing to torment him.”

The snort that came from Mors was indignant and lofty. “I’m taking it as a challenge.”

“He’s only eight.”

“And the future King of Lucis,” Mors stated dryly. “If he can’t handle a few pranks by his father, he won’t be nearly thick-skinned enough to lead a country.”

Argan rolled his eyes towards the heavens. “Six help us,” he grumbled. He wasn’t sure the Citadel was ready to weather a war between father and son.

* * *

The call came at precisely eight o’clock the next morning, which also happened to be the exact moment Argan Amicitia was having a mental breakdown because the fucking King of Lucis had gone _missing_. The Shield of the King was well on his way to ripping his hair from his scalp when the secretary that screened most of the calls coming up to the upper floors of the Citadel paged him over his phone’s speaker.

“Lord Amicitia,” her cool voice caroled. It felt like lightning zapping down his spine. He used to jokingly call her the ‘wicked witch’ to Mors. The slimy bastard at informed her of it and now the woman - Paula, her fucking name was Paula - took every chance she got to make her voice sickeningly sweet when she spoke to him.

If he left maybe she would think he’d been out-

“I know your there.” It sounded like she was cooing the words. “Prince Regis’ school is on the line and they need to speak with his Majesty about an urgent matter but I can’t get ahold of him.”

Argan picked up the phone. “The King is currently…” he trailed off, trying to think of something.

“Hiding from his fatherly duties?” Paula supplied. Her voice was syrupy sweet which told him she had an equally as horrid smile on her face.

He wasn’t going to justify that quip with a response. “Just… patch the school through to me. I’ll handle it.”

“As you wish.” That sing-song voice was going to haunt him all the way to the Beyond.

There was a click on the line and then the phone rang twice before clicking again. The muffled voice of a male came to Argan’s ear. It sounded as if the man had covered the mouthpiece of the phone of pulled away to talk to someone.

“I don’t know what to tell you to do yet, I’m still on hold!” the voice huffed. “Just… give me a few more minutes” A more distorted voice came after that, saying something Argan couldn’t understand. “I don’t know!” the male voice shot back, sounding as if he’d raised the phone back to his ear. “Just, give him a new badge for now.”

“This is Argan Amicitia,” he provided and heard a soft sigh come from the other side of the phone. “The King is currently… indisposed. How can I help you?”

There was a moment of hesitation before the man started babbling. “Sir, we got a notice this morning as we opened that the King, in all his glory, has decided to… legally change the Prince’s name?” There was mild hysteria in his voice, noticeable by the way it pitched slightly higher towards the end of his sentence. “I just wanted to clarify…”

Argan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Part of him, in the lowest parts of his heart had hoped the King had been kidding. Maybe show the paper to Regis as a taunt.

“I was… vaguely aware of the possibility. I wasn’t aware he had passed it forward, however.” Well, now the King’s disappearance made a lot more sense. Was this his punishment for laughing about Mors’ glue predicament?

“Yes, well… Sir, I don’t know if the King is aware but… we have to print name tags for the childrens’ desks and…” The man made a choking sound. “I’m not sure… I’m not sure I can print ‘Little Shit’ on a piece of paper and leave it on his desk. We had to print him a new school badge as it is so he could enter the grounds since… well, since Regis Lucis Caelum is no longer in our logs…”

He was going to murder the King, Argan realized as he stared at the ceiling. He was going to strangle him and write “Shittiest Father of the Year” on his grave marker. Each King, after their death, was noted for something they’d done in their lifetime. The first King of Lucis was known as ‘The Founder’. There were a plethora of others after that, from ‘The Conqueror’ to ‘The Wise’.

Argan was going to make sure Mors went down as “King Mors the Asshole’.

“Can you just, not change his name tag?” Argan asked, knowing it was a gamble. The school did everything, and he meant _everything_ by the book.

“If it is legally his name now-”

“Can you shorten it then? Make it LS and let him keep his tag that says Regis, his name will be back to normal before the day is out,” he promised. “Or he will be the new King by the end of the day and can change it back himself.”

The man on the phone was quiet for a moment before Argan heard him squeak something about possible treason. After reassuring him for another five minutes that he wasn’t going to murder the King of Lucis, the Shield hung up with the school with the understanding that the Prince would continued to be called ‘Regis’, and that the name could be shortened to ‘Little’ if they absolutely just _could not_ figure out how to get around the paperwork.

With that as close to settled as Argan could arrange, the Shield made his way to the only other place he could thing Mors would be hiding. A place where all others left him alone on the ground of trespassing, and possible death depending on which guards were nearby. Some of them were a little twitchy.

Ten minutes and an express elevator ride up found Argan exiting the Citadel via its roof access. It was an area that was dedicated above the throne room that allowed the light of the Crystal to shine towards the heavens. It also acted as a garden, and a shrine to Mors’ late wife and Regis’ mother, the Queen. There were few people allowed to access the area, himself included. Mors was actually the one that kept the place tidy, trimming the rose bushes and keeping the small grassy area trimmed back.

The garden itself was small, and while some would think there must be some kind of monument to the late Queen placed somewhere on the roof, there wasn’t. There was a small water fountain surrounded by rose bushes, and a lone maple tree with leaves the same color of crimson that the sun threw across the sky when it set. Mors hung trinkets from its branches, little mementos of times long past. Some were things that he had acquired while the Queen had been alive, the newer ones that hung from tree now were small things he had gathered here and there around the city. Things Mors thought she would have liked. More often than not, they were drawings Regis had made that Mors had snuck out of the boy's room when he was sleeping.

Argan found him sitting beneath the tree, cradled in the roots as if the tree were trying to hug him. The King was speaking softly to himself, or more likely to the tree, smiling faintly as he toyed with one of Regis’ old toy cars, one that had been hanging from a branch only recently.

“The school called,” Argan announced as he stopped where the roots began to punch up from the soil. “They are in a panic because this weird ‘Change of Name’ form appeared on the principal’s desk and procedure demands they now call Prince Regis ‘Prince Little Shit’.

There was a solid moment where Mors was very quiet, then he eased back so that he relaxed against the bark of the tree, a serene smile plastered on his face. “He is going to be furious.”

“I still have those adoption papers, you know,” Argan announced as he folded his hands onto his hips.

Mors eye’s gleamed as he gave his Shield a crooked grin. “And give up my parental rights to torture my own son until the day I die? Never.”


	4. Chapter 4

Four months.

It took four, stress inducing months, and the passing of the Prince’s ninth birthday before retribution came.

Argan - to his credit - enjoyed every second of it.

The day of the dreaded ‘Name Change’, Regis had been livid. All 90 pounds of his tiny eight-year-old body had been a coil of frustration that, like a small bomb, had gone off on his father in a landslide of angry shouts and then soft sobs.

Mors, for all his bad parenting skills, had been remorseful and had apologized to the boy. Apparently Argan’s prediction of the stunt causing some more bullying issues at school had been correct, and Clarus had brought in a friend a year ahead of them in class to help.

Weskham Armaugh, a boy from the Keycatrich area had to be what Argan would describe as a ‘formidable’ friend. The boy was tall, dark and lanky. He carried himself with ease for all his long limbs, and had an air about him that screamed ‘I’ll punch you’. He seemed nothing like a boy raised in the wealth of Keycatrich, which shocked Argan even more.

The boy was also smart. Scarily so. Which Argan already knew did not bode well for the King.

Mors, in the back of his mind; must have realized it too, because the following month after his prank, the King was a jumpy mess. He entered rooms cautiously. Checked and then double checked chairs, stools and even the throne. Argan was beginning to suspect that the prank was simply that there wasn’t one. Either intentionally or because Regis had had enough.

Either way, the result was an anxiety riddled King that pounced on his Shield after each sighting. It was stressing him out, but he couldn’t very well tell Mors to fuck off. Well he could, but he wasn’t.

After Regis’ birthday went off without any disasters, Mors started to relax. A month later, Argan caught him scheming. Three days after that, it happened.

Mors and one of his advisors - a plump man that mumbled too much for Argan’s liking - were walking to the King’s study, heads bowed close together as they mulled over paperwork. Argan wasn’t really paying attention, trailing behind them like a third-wheel on a blind date. He was simply there because he was the King’s Shield.

And because sometimes Mors shrank on his duties and would disappear, leaving his retainers - namely Argan - to pick up the slack. Today, at least, he _seemed_ interested in the goings on of his kingdom.

That was until the two men entered the study ahead of him.

The ungodly _shriek_ that echoed down the hall sounded like a screaming cat. Argan had never had heart problems, though he probably was now. The poor, abused organ was in his throat as he bolted for the study door. He found both Mors and his advisor sitting on the floor in the middle of a puddle. The puddle was the most putrid shade of yellow Argan had ever laid eyes on. Somewhere between ‘Baby Puke’ and ‘Stale Urine’. Both the men on the floor were covered in it, head to toe. Warily, Argan reached out and gingerly touched the shoulder of Mors’ jacket.

Paint.

It was paint.

The laugh started somewhere deep below his diaphragm and worked its way up his throat.

Regis, the cunning little shit, had waited until his father was relaxed and unsuspecting. Four whole _months_ the brat had waited, and then he’d used one of the oldest pranks known to mankind. A bucket of water over the door, substituting the water with paint.

“Mors,” Argan choked out, trying not to die as he watched the King help his advisor remove the paint bucket from his head. “The boy is living up to his name.”

The King froze, then turned to face him. Argan got the delight of watching realization draw on Mors’ face. Then the man released a string of very unkingly curses.

“I’m going to ground him for eternity!”

* * *

Eternity, as it turned out, was a week. It was only a week because Clarus had sought out his father and begged him to talk to Mors. The King had agreed, but only if Clarus agreed to start his Shield training the following year after his tenth birthday. Clarus had agreed without a second thought.

The problem arose when Clarus told Regis the following day about it, and had quickly passed along to Argan that the Prince had gotten upset over the news.

“Can we not be friends?” Clarus asked him, his eyes wide and round with an innocence Argan had forgotten existed. “I told him that you and the King are friends still but…” the boy trailed off and looked to the side. Argan could see the beginnings of heartbreak there and it ripped him apart inside.

“I’ll talk to him,” he offered, watching his son’s face light up, and couldn’t help but feel like he’d just walked into a trap.

* * *

Part of being grounded meant the Prince was not allowed out with his friends after school. Instead of trusting the Royal Guard with the detail of picking the Prince up and bringing him home from school - because Mors wasn’t an idiot and knew the young Prince had been bribing them - instead had Argan sent to do the job.

Argan hadn’t complained. The first day he’d brought the boy home in silence. The second he’d watched him through the rearview mirror as he stared sullenly out of the back windows. The third, he finally spoke.

“You know, you and Clarus can still be friends even if he is your Shield.”

Regis met his gaze through the mirror, those green eyes uncertain. There was apprehension there; a worry that Argan couldn’t quiet pick up as he watched the Prince. The boy wavered, seemed to try and hold his gaze, then looked away.

“If he’s my Shield, that means he has to protect me, right?” Regis asked, voice sullen.

Argan checked the road before turning, taking a different direction than the one straight to the Citadel. Regis noticed and looked back towards him through the rearview. Argan didn’t say anything for the moment, just kept driving until he reached the park, settling the car into an empty space before climbing out and letting the Prince escape from the backseat. He kept that silence as he walked with Regis towards the center where a fountain splashed. It was warm out, birds sang in the trees and a vendor was selling ice cream nearby. The boy cast one longing look at the last before Argan pressed a few Crowns into his hand and nodded, then took a seat and waited for Regis to return.

He came back with a scoop, hesitated then sat beside Argan at the fountain.

“I would protect your father from any harm with my life,” Argan announced as he stared straight ahead. “I said my vows knowing that one day they could mean I would be cut down if only so he could escape. I’ve served all these years knowing that his life is more valuable than mine will ever be.”

Beside him, Regis made a distressed sound. “I don’t want Clarus to die because of me,” he whispered, his voice littered with anxiety.

Argan closed his eyes and smiled. “Then you do your very best not to be in harm’s way,” he told the Prince, looking down at the crown of his dark, unruly hair. “I’m here to protect your father, just as Clarus will one day be here to protect you,” Argan said gently, pausing until Regis tilted his head enough for their eyes to meet. “But I’m also here to guide him…” he continued. “As both an advisor and a friend. Your dad does stupid stuff sometimes.”

That earned him a snort.

“Like start a prank war?” Regis murmured, peering up at him sheepishly.

“Like starting a prank war,” Argan confirmed then ruffled the boys hair. “I know you don’t want Clarus to get hurt, and Clarus doesn’t want you to get hurt. So the two of you will have to work together to make sure both of you never do, right?”

Regis was quiet for a moment, staring at the slowly melting ice cream in his hand. He gulped, chewed his bottom lip and then slowly nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

They sat in silence then, Argan looking up at the sky while the Prince nibbled on his ice cream and watched two birds fighting over a grasshopper. It was peaceful, Argan thought, there inside the Wall that shimmered so distantly in the sky. One could forget there was talk of war on the outside.

“Argan?”

The Prince’s voice snapped him from his thoughts and had him ducking his head slightly to peer down at him. He made a questioning sound in the back of his throat, curious.

“Do you think you could help me with something?” Regis was looking at his ice cream again. The corner of his mouth was tilted down ever so slightly in a frown, something Argan didn’t think suited the nine-year-old at all.

“Sure.”

Those green eyes turned to seemingly stare into his soul. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Argan heard something that sounded similar to a steel trap clamping shut.

“I need you to help me prank my dad.”


	5. Chapter 5

Argan felt silly, sitting in his son’s room at a table made for a body far smaller than his own. He was sitting in a small chair, knees folded towards his chest while his son and the Crown Prince sat across from him, hands folded on top of the table.

He felt like he was about to be interrogated.

Both Clarus and Regis wore matching serious looks on their faces. “Lord Amicitia,” Regis started in what Argan assumed was his best imitation of his father. “Clarus and I haven’t been able to come up with a new prank yet,” the boy confessed. “I was hoping you might be able to assist me.”

“Wesk came up with the last plan,” Clarus said sadly. “It was really good.”

Argan tried -and failed- to hide his smile. “It was.”

“You won’t get in trouble for helping us, will you?” the Prince asked worriedly. “I know your my dad’s Shield and have to protect him…”

Regis was turning into quite the little diplomat. “I appreciate your concern, your majesty,” Argan said with a smile. “I protect the King from anything that might _harm_ him. His son playing a prank is nothing of the sort, and by helping I’m also making sure I’ll be able to help you keep it safe.”

Regis nodded slowly in agreement while Clarus beamed at him.

“I told you, Reggie. My dad is the best!”

* * *

Mors, over the last few months, had developed a sweet tooth. Argan had noticed after he’d gone to the study one day to find a box with plifered donuts sitting atop it. The King also liked fried dough covered in confectioners sugar, something that was normally only around during festivals. There was a cook somewhere in the Citadel getting paid extra to make these treats.

As Argan explained his idea, the children’s eyes lit up with joy.

Hidden away in the Citadel kitchen, they got to work; the children carefully following Argan’s instructions while he used a knife to slice strawberries into halves. A little extra flare to make their deceitful treat all the more believable.

It didn’t take long to actually finish the little project, but Argan had to keep an eye on it after finishing to make sure no unsuspecting staff attempted to make off with their hard work.

It was a longer process, making the _actual_ treat, but once finished and decorated just like the other, Argan cut off two slices and smiled. “Regis,” he called to the young Prince. “Go to your father’s study and let him know there’s a treat here, compliments of the kitchen staff.”

Regis’ green eyes nearly glowed with excitement as he took off for his father’s rooms, which gave Argan enough time to cut a third slice and then carefully hide the whole thing from view, leaving only the ‘decoy’ as he’d dubbed it, in plain sight.

Regis returned well ahead of his father, and the three made a show of sitting around the island casually eating their treat when Mors walked in.

To the King’s credit, he was checking carefully about him, but seemed to relax when he saw Argan standing there with the two boys. “What is this about a ‘treat’ I hear?”

Show time.

“One of the Chef’s made a cake,” he announced, showing him a bit of the yellow cake he had sitting on his plate. “A new recipe. This was his first attempt, the second is there.” He used his fork to point towards the white dish sitting on the counter.

Curiosity colored Mors’ eyes as he reached down and lifted the lid of the platter. Beneath it was a round cake covered in white frosting, Sliced strawberries around the outer edge. The scent of freshly baked cake still lingered in the air, and Argan was sure he could see Mors’ mouth water just a tad.

Beside him Clarus made a small strangled noise and he caught the quick elbow to the ribs Regis shot his way.

With all the grace in the world, Argan reached down and handed the King a knife. “It is very good,” he announced and the children at his side made noises of agreement, exacerbated by stuffing another forkful in their mouths.

“Well then,” the King murmured, and used the knife to slice into the cake. Or he would have if it hadn’t sprang back into place. A frown etched its way across his mouth, and with a furrowed brow, the King tried again. He pressed harder this time, the knife piercing the top layer. “What kind of cake-”

There was a loud _’pop’_ and a rush of white powder shot forth from where the knife had pierced, flinging a cloud of confectioners sugar and flour into the King’s face. The children burst into peals of laughter while Argan smiled faintly as Mors sputtered and cursed.

“I believe it’s called a ‘Sponge Cake’, your Majesty.”

Mors used the knife to scrape back the icing, revealing the round, yellow sponge with a hole cut in the center where the remnants of a popped balloon sat. He stared at it blankly for a moment before he slowly turned his gaze on Argan.

“Just so you know,” he murmured. “This means _war_.”

* * *

“You’re sure you’re not going to get into trouble?” Regis asked as he walked the young Prince back home. The two boys had escaped with him and had spent the rest of the day at the Amicitia household instead of at the Citadel. Argan wasn’t sure that was the best idea yet, but had no other ideas on how to escape the Citadel and the reach of the King for the time being.

He’d only gotten two texts from the King. Both ill omens of the terrors he would face upon his return.

“It will be fine, Regis. Perhaps his pranks will turn towards me now instead of you. I know the last one was a bit… underhanded.”

Regis snorted in indignation. “He’d better be glad I can’t change his name,” the boy grumbled and Argan held back a laugh over the different names that sprang to mind.

He escorted Regis all the way to the Royal Quarters on the upper floors of the Citadel. The Prince murmured a quick ‘goodnight’ before scurrying to his room. With a smile, Argan started back towards the elevator only to stop when he heard his name called. Immediately on high alert, the Shield turned to look towards the door of the King’s private study. The other one, on the lower floors, was used when meeting other diplomats or his advisors. This one was the King’s personal office and library. Argan himself had only been in there maybe four times.

The door was slightly ajar and light spilled from beyond. Carefully, Argan opened the door, peering up at the top of it cautiously.

“Looking for a bucket?” Mors asked from where he sat behind a large wooden desk. He chuckled when his Shield’s eyes snapped over to him. “Don’t worry. I would never think to use the same prank as my enemies.” The King’s eyes all but danced. “Come, have a seat.”

Warning bells were going off in Argan’s head but he couldn’t see anything wrong with anything within the room. He spied no glue on the chair, nothing that spoke of the legs having been broken. Everything was neat and orderly, and the King had risen to retrieve a bottle and two glasses from his liquor cabinet.

Argan lowered himself into the chair, watching as the King’s back tensed when the leather squeaked ever so slightly; and then Argan was rolling backwards, startled as loud popping sounds went off underneath him. With a yelp, the Shield went down and quickly rolled away from the chair and to his feet, staring at the overturned leather cushion.

The King was howling with laughter, setting a bottle of whiskey on the desk. “Ah… I can’t wait until Regis goes to bed,” he murmured happily, glancing at the clock. “We’d best head that way.”

Argan was staring at the chair where small white bags were hidden under the seat. “Poppers?” he murmured and watched the King nod.

“I had a few I saved from a festival last year,” he said with a grin. “They pop under pressure, usually the kids stomp on them.”

He was impressed, Argan admitted to himself. But there was a flaw in Mors’ plan. “Regis doesn’t weigh nearly enough to make those pop simply by laying on his bed.”

“I know. That’s why I put them between books.”

Argan was out the door and on his way to the Prince’s bedroom, Mors on his heels and grinning like the cat who’d caught the canary. He barely reached the door, his hand reaching out for the handle when they heard it. A series of loud ‘pops’ and then the startled yelp of a child, and then a string of soft curses before he dropped his hand with a sigh. He turned to face the King and got a wide, toothy grin for all his annoyance.

His laughter followed Argan all the way from the Citadel back home.

He had to come up with a new battle strategy.


End file.
